Hawke was a connoisseur not of Tevinter wines, but of a similarly rare vintage known as humor.
In layman’s terms: he made funnies. At least he tried.
Some enjoyed rich flavors with a fine, earthy terroir. Some enjoyed a gulp that burned on its way down and pricked the corners of their eyes with tears—reminding them that all the bad brews made the best memories, and true laughter brought a man as close to weeping as grief.
A sovereign had two sides. Two heads, as a matter of fact.
‘You know, I’ve got two heads too, Fenris,’ Hawke had said.
‘Remarkable, then, how little both think before they act,’ Fenris had replied.
‘Are your legs tired?’ Hawke asked. ‘Because you’ve been running from slavers through my dreams all night.’
‘Is that a magical fisting trick, or are you just glowing to see me?’ Hawke asked.
‘I was going to say ‘Nice boots,’ but you’re not really wearing them, are you?’ Hawke sighed. ‘Elves make things so difficult.’
‘You must be a templar, because you’ve got my heart under lock and key,’ Hawke said.
‘These ‘lines’ are even worse than Isabela’s,’ Fenris replied at last. ‘She, at least, is to the point.’
‘Did you get those pants from a moldy barrel of torn trousers?’ Hawke asked. ‘Because I can see myself in them.’
That one didn’t even make sense. But the lines around Fenris’s mouth cracked nonetheless, thin shadows that twisted as they creased.
‘I would hope,’ Fenris added, his fingers knotting in Hawke’s hair, the twitch and jump and shiver of his belly tickling Hawke’s brow, ‘that you will not continue to…’
Hope was a funny thing. The greatest laugh of them all.
Fenris, on the other hand, didn’t continue. Hawke saved the rest of his jokes for the flesh; the only lines were the ones he drew with his tongue, from the base of Fenris’s dick to the head. ‘Ah, look,’ he murmured, and his voice in his throat hummed, ‘you have two heads, too, Fenris. And one of them is so happy to see me.’
Fenris hadn’t laughed. But his moan was perfect, so that didn’t matter.
The punchline came when Fenris’s hips were rolling—slow as the waves of the ocean that had carried an aimless little boat to Kirkwall’s shores from Gwaren—and Bodahn appeared in the doorway. ‘For the last time, Sandal, there aren’t any salamanders in he…oh. Oh! Oh. Oh, Messere.’
When the door snicked shut, Hawke added, ‘Perhaps when you locked up my heart, I should have learned to lock the doors.’
Then, against all odds, with Hawke’s lips and teeth between a curl of fine, heady lyrium and smooth, leather-scented skin, then began to laugh together.
It was all Hawke had ever really wanted. Aside from the big house and the fancy clothes and the drinks in crystal tumblers whose names he couldn’t pronounce. Fenris drew Hawke up from between his thighs and kissed him, the muddied taste on their tongues. He sounded like himself when he chuckled, unmistakable now, as happy as a moan.
‘…Are you a healer?’ he asked, hoarse, into the darkness. ‘For I hear…laughter is the best medicine.’
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